Broken Speech
by fluidstatic
Summary: Bur-Omisace is a crater, and Balthier is screaming; listen carefully. Now - Turn around. Go back. Listen again.


**Broken Speech**

_(Listen Carefully.)_

"Behau'a fesz, Fran? Ne Sjec tr'a?"

Vaan's never heard Balthier raise his voice to Fran – not to anyone. He sits up in his bedroll and squints into the dark, as if Balthier's foreign ranting will translate itself in the cold blackness of the tent.

"A'fesz, a'galiik. Balthier Akadi sec'ha drjt'i hac _pac_'dn? Hac _galiit?_"

Gibberish with purpose – anger, righteousness. There's a familiar snarl in his voice, usually drawled. Vaan shivers.

"_Ghis _a'noth. _Leviathan _tr'pfai. _Bergan,_ tse'bal. Ashelia gali'hwe, Fam'rjn dej. A'bes, a'he. Cr _Traghd'_ Ashelia! Be'cja jas'wrdhe houn. Prja kdjs'o houn. _Empire_ pe'houn, E _Cidolphus_ ha. Pra cao pe'houn... Aagh, _Liith._"

Ghis. Leviathan. Ashe, Ashe, and more Ashe. The Empire - he's angry about the war - He's complaining. Again?

Furious, Vaan rises and lights Penelo's lamp. By the time he's outside the tent, Fran's found her voice.

"Ffam'rjn, ni'pjasr te'kho. Fesz'te tr'buan. Ca Balthier nos e'tjn, 'fjar _Ffam'rjn_ dua. Tra'tje de. _A'tje_ de."

Balthier's reply is even louder than his last.

"Ffam'rjn _ce'fasz! _i' Princess be'jn noth t'mjar? _Ah? _Ce, Fran, ce. A'fesz, Ronsenburg _galii'a_ bes'wr _mjat. _Niith dn'cit? Princess _tr'vueth,_ Ronsenburg _tr'galiit! _Aii, li'cao, _pfai!"_

The word "Princess" wrenches with disdain; "Ronsenburg" has a note of acid in it. Vaan bristles, but Fran's reply is muffled, sad.

"Balthier, nr'a la'sai."

"La'sai _cei!_ Bathier hrao, cr'_ fran._ Balthier _tju'han._ Ffamrjn tl'ath, ce'ha! _Ktcj'ii!_"

Vaan makes up his mind; he has to be sure everything's OK. Nervous, he jogs toward the tent. There's a pause, but then the pirate's voice ratchets higher - he must be drunk; he's hysterical.

"...Ni lana fr'a, ni ce'lhai a', _eh? ...Haa? Eh?"_

Vaan is a few meters from the tent now – he can hear Fran clearly, and it's awful – she's _begging. _

"Ce, Ffamrjn, ladn'sr _wae,_ mjsr _bhao,_ lhai'_an _- _Ce!"_

Balthier's voice has gone hoarse, but he growls now. The hair on Vaan's neck stands up. "Ni Tr'noth _nibasua'te_ a'n. Ni fesz'a twri k'_dan._"

"Ffamrjn,_ ce! _Fo'e, fo'e lhai'an! A'pjat - _Ah!"_

Fran's voice lifts in desperation – Vaan looks all around. Where's Basch when you need him? And now a scuffling sound, skin against skin, cloth, struggle -

"Cao'ei Eth, Fran! _Cn'fjeht'a!"_

Heart in his mouth, enraged, Vaan shoves back the heavy suede flap of the tent and thrusts Penelo's lamp into the gloom. Everything freezes and Balthier leaps back, flinching (Asshole).

"Balthier, Faram's _ass, _I've had enough. I don't care who you think you are - You need to shut your damn mouth and get your hands _off of her."_

Fran is shaking – she's crying. "Vaan..."

"Let him talk," the bastard pirate mutters. His eyes close, and he slumps onto the floor of the tent with a long, pitiful sigh. Vaan doubles his fists.

"I don't speak Fran's language - lucky for you - But I know a whining idiot when I hear one. Ripping into Ashe for some stupid reason in the middle of the night after she's saved all our lives. _Again._ Not that you were any help, apart from a handful of shot and a couple of potions. You hide in corners and let the rest of us take a beating, so you'll live to throw drunken fits at Fran later? It's sick. You're a _coward."_

"What did you say?" Fran whispers. There's something awful in her eyes.

"I said he's a _coward,_ all right?"

Vaan can't believe the sound of his own voice, but it feels so _good_ to be angry. Fran tilts her chin and stares at him, but she's not the one who's pissed him off, so he turns his attention back to Balthier. The pirate has one hand draped over his eyes, his long legs splayed nonchalantly as ever in front of him, drowsing. Vaan feels his gorge rise in disgust - Who sleeps off a hangover in a black suede tent in the middle of a bombing?

"Ashe's fighting this war a thousand times harder than you are, Balthier. You think you can get away with wandering along behind her, whining about getting _paid? _I don't know what your problem is, but you need to shut your mouth and do your job."

Balthier doesn't even move. When he finally speaks, his voice is lead. "...And what job is that, Vaan?"

Vaan is so angry he wants cry. Instead he turns, rips Mage Masher from its sheath, plunges it into the side of Balthier's black suede tent, and slashes.

"How 'bout you start by repairing your tent, so your _trophy wife_ doesn't freeze to death? Wouldn't be _chivalrous _of you to lay around with a _hangover_ and let her freeze. It might ruin your _vacation._ We wouldn't want that, now _would _we?"

Balthier finally takes his hand away from his face and meets Vaan's gaze. His eyes are bloodshot, his face white.

"Beg your pardon?" he says, in a strange voice.

Fran straightens her posture. "You are quite ill with the chill of this place, Balthier," She says, without looking at him, "And quite drunk. I do not approve of the latter, but I forgive it."

She blinks and takes a step toward Vaan, ears twitching. The strange look in her eye has turned to murder.

"Should he grow sicker and leave this world because of your foolishness, I will not forgive – I will _unmake_ you. _Get out."_

Vaan throws his dagger back in its sheath and runs. As he ducks back into his tent, he's disgusted - he can still hear Fran chanting the pirate's name.  
_  
Balthier... Balthier... Balthier._

_(Turn Around. Go Back. Now - Listen Again.)_

Ffamran can't breathe. He's watched everything with distant eyes for weeks, pretending his shallow arrogance, playing cold; the weight of it has bent him into knots. And now, Fran's just suggested that the time has come. Maybe they should stop lying.

When he opens his mouth, his own voice terrifies him.

"Tell me _confess, _Fran? You no more _use_ for me?" His grammar is horrendous, but the volume of his hysteria fills in the gaps. "I confess, I _killed. _Devil Archadian, lost all his fangs, be_ walked_ on? Be _killed?_"

Fran bows her head. Why doesn't she ever react to him anymore? His fear and rage roars over him like a hurricane, dissolving into pain.

"Ghis, I don't care. Leviathan, spit on it. Bergan evil. Kill everybody, Ashelia. Ffamran agrees. I help, I do. But, _stupid_ Ashelia! She never defeat everything. Trying destroy too much, Empire too much. And Cidolphus, now. So very too much... Oh, _God."_

Now he's crying (Bugger and hell to everything, why does he have to be such a child?).

Fran lays the palm of her hand against his cheek. "Ffamran, you make yourself sick. Tell them the truth. Let Balthier sleep awhile, and walk Ffamran's path. They need him. I need him."

Her face is so smooth. He's reminded of how inhume she is, her long deadly limbs, softly striated dark cherry eyes. She twitches her ears - _Trust me. _

But the meaning of what she's saying seeps through as he translates, slowly. The word 'truth' twists into 'sin', then 'sleep' becomes 'die.' Ffamran sees an axe falling in his mind, pictures Noah's snarl writ dark across Basch's face. Fear twists into bitterness; bitterness flies into rage.

"Ffamran_ not_ confess. Princess going to think acceptable? No, Fran, no. I confess, Ronsenburg _kill_ me because _liar._ You think he not? Princess not _want _it, Ronsenburg_ kill_ it! Ah, _spit on them."_

"Balthier. You forget yourself."

"Forget _nothing!_ Balthier cruel, but _strong._ Balthier _respected._ Ffamran be true and stand up? No more. _Crack!" _

He mimes breaking his own neck, but even this doesn't faze Fran. Her eyes smolder, infinite power and patience, piqued with quiet desperation.

"I do not think so."

Calm, steady, ancient Fran; he hates her. He hates himself for being so frightened. Something infantile and petty leaps into his mind and he's on his toes, brandishing both fists – damn her for being so slim and tall, so imposing, so perfect. "You better than me, not love me. Fran liar too, yes?"

Fran's muscles tense; he lunges. "...Well? Yes?"

Fran's ears droop – she's weeping. Steady as a tree, head bowed, she reaches to brush tears from her face.

"No, Ffamran, clever pirate, sweet child, lover - No."

She's never cried like this before. Her tears frighten him; he lunges.

"You think you better than me. You always tell me what to do."

Fran's voice breaks. "Ffamran, no... Center of my heart, my love, please..."

She reaches for him. He tries to hit her again – she deflects, with a sob – he shouts through the fire in his throat.

"Pain and Death, Fran! Don't touch me!"

A figure suddenly darkens the tent threshold, a torch held high. Ffamran flinches, throws his hands over his face. Balthier is a rogue, and a serpent, and a liar; Balthier is flawlessly poised. He must remember the spotlight - even if his audience is only -

Vaan. The boy seems to have grown a spine. He brandishes his lamp like a mace, and his voice is hot.

"Balthier, Faram's ass, I've had enough. I don't care who you think you are - you need to shut your damn mouth and get your hands off of her."

"Vaan-"

"Let him talk," Ffamran interjects, glad for the distraction of Vaan's foolishness. But his legs shake; he might faint. He lowers himself carefully to the floor of the tent, and the ground stops tilting.

Vaan's furious. "I don't speak Fran's language - lucky for you. But I know a whining idiot when I hear one. Ripping into Ashe for some stupid reason in the middle of the night after she's saved all our lives. Again."

Vaan only hears what he wants to hear; of course. Ffamran makes a fist. Precious Ashelia! Saviour of all Ivalice in her beauty and martyrdom! Her strength be praised! Damn her to hell.

Vaan's rant tumbles onward - "...Not that you were any help, apart from a handful of shot and a couple of potions. You hide in corners and let the rest of us take a beating, so you'll live to throw drunken fits at Fran later? It's sick. You're a coward."

"What did you say?" Fran's voice is molten – she'll murder the boy – but Vaan's rage has made him drunk. He snaps.

"I said he's a coward, all right?"

A dark pause passes. Ffamran reaches deep into Balthier's repertoire, trying to remember the joy in these terrible pauses – all he finds is dread.

The boy has a point.

Vaan finally carries on. "Ashe's fighting this war a thousand times harder than you are, Balthier. You think you can get away with wandering along behind her, whining about getting paid?"

Get away with it. What a joke. Balthier fights for every smirk, claws disdain from the center of his gut, feigns nonchalance with the bitter determination of a man about to hang. The war is Ffamran's fault; the silent blame suffocates him. Ashe kills, and kills again, but what does she know of fighting? What do any of them truly know? They're all going to die, blind and trumpeting immortality – the fools!

But now Vaan makes his declaration – every word brands him a pirate, and a man. "I don't know what your problem is, but you need to shut your mouth and do your job."

Ffamran's mouth goes dry with alarm; he summons his stoicism from somewhere distant and hollow. "...And what job is that, Vaan?"

But no answer comes, only a strange scuffling, a dull rip – a blast of air. There's a hole in the leatherette wall of the tent, now. Icy winds whistle through.

"How 'bout you start by repairing your tent, so your trophy wife doesn't freeze to death? Wouldn't be chivalrous of you to lay around with a hangover and let her freeze. It might ruin your vacation. We wouldn't want that, now, would we?"

Ffamran uncovers his eyes, considers Vaan's question. He wants no vacation – he wants nothing of bravado, sarcasm, chivalry - he wants...

He wants to stop running.

"Beg your pardon?" he asks himself.

"You are quite ill with the chill of this place, Balthier," Fran says at once, suddenly brisk, "And quite drunk. I do not approve of the latter, but I forgive it." Her voice sharpens as she bears down on Vaan, poor bastard. "Should he grow sicker and leave this world because of your foolishness, I will not forgive – I will unmake you."

Ffamran's heart skips. He's a child in the middle of a war zone, too frightened to fight, too proud to run – and then there is Fran, acting the farce for all she's worth. She's reading her lines right out of the freezing air in front of her; beautiful creature, she's defending him.

"Get out," she snarls, and Vaan runs. Ffamran thinks to shout after him, for show – but of course, he is drunken pirate no longer.

"I'll tell them, Fran," he whispers. "Give me time – just a little more time. I'm not ready."

Now he is crying again, and Fran kneels beside him. She kisses him, and her mouth is soft... but why does she defend him? Useless, wretched, lying coward, bastard – _Why? _

"Oh clever child, my pirate, my love," she murmurs, spinning a sleep spell between her fingers. "You have pretended your strength too long. Sleep. Dream, and remember. You are the _demon of Ivalice,_ the _terror _of all who have wronged you – you are _Balthier_ – you are _Balthier."_

She chants the word, she cradles him - and the Traitor-Judge of Archadia falls asleep, lost in the tattered music of his lies.

_Balthier... Balthier... Balthier._


End file.
